


clay

by bonebo



Category: Final Fantasy
Genre: Double Penetration, Drugging, Extreme Insertion, Humiliation, Kidnapping, M/M, Mindbreak, Multi, Rape, Sounding, Triple Penetration, Urethral Stretching, sweat kink, urethra fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 10:07:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14210805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: “So smooth...you’re going to look so good, when we’re done with you…”“Stop touching me,” Snow hisses, and earns himself a hard smack of his head against the wall, the dull sound of skull on concrete making his ears ring and his vision blur.“Hush,” the guard snaps. “We’ve barely begun our journey together, Snow. And by the end of it, you’ll be used to us touching you everywhere--hell, you’ll come to crave it. You won’t be able to remember a time when your body wasn’t ours, shaped and molded to our every whim and desire, and you’ll love it.”





	clay

Snow doesn’t know how long he’s been here--sitting in a cell in the basement of some old Psi-Com base, his hands cuffed tight behind his back and the cold of the concrete floor seeping into his bare skin--but if the hunger that pangs in his belly and the aching chill that’s settled over his naked body is any indication, it has been entirely too long.

He can’t remember the last time he felt the warmth of sunlight on his skin, but he can remember his capture--can remember walking along the shore in New Bodhum with his head tipped back and his eyes closed, his feet bare to enjoy the feeling of the sand between his toes, the warm water splashing gently around his ankles. He can remember the easy breeze that blew through his hair, the quiet murmur of the rushing surf--

And then blackness, a pinprick in his neck and hands over his eyes, a voice that hissed in his ear, “If you make a goddamn sound, I’ll cut your throat right here.”

For the longest time Snow didn’t even know who had captured him; when he woke up he was naked and cuffed, lying in a grimy cell in the darkness. From there it had taken days for someone--anyone--to come see him--and when he’d first caught sight of the Psi-Com uniforms, the striking blocks of yellow and white, he’d felt his heart sink into the bottom of his stomach.

And it was there that his hell truly began.

-x-

“You don’t know how long we’ve been waiting for you,” one guard comments, his voice a low murmur over the jingle of keys as he unlocks the door to Snow’s cell. Where he sits with his hands cuffed and his collar tied to a hook seated deep in the wall behind him, Snow can’t do much more than glare, but he still manages a sour, “What are you going to do to me? Why did you choose me?”

“So many questions.” The guard opens the door and comes inside, his boots thudding noisily on the bare concrete floor; and Snow grits his teeth, trying to stagger up to his feet before the guard reaches him.

And as soon as he manages to stand, his knees locking into place and the room swaying a little around him, the guard throws a swift punch to his temple that has Snow--in his weakened, starved state of being--crumbling right back down to the floor.

“I’ll tell you this one time and one time only, so listen up,” the guard snarls, using his boot to kick Snow’s thighs open and reveal the soft length of his cock hidden there. He toys with the flaccid flesh with the toe of his boot, delighting in Snow’s groans of obvious discomfort. “Your time as a l’Cie is over. Your time as a man, as anything more than a test subject or toy, is over. From here on out, you belong to us.” 

He crouches then, grabbing Snow’s scruffy chin in between his finger and thumb and turning his head so their gazes meet.

“All you need to worry about is following directions, and keeping us happy.”

Snow tries to growl, but the sound rasps and dies in his parched throat. His head is roughly tossed back by the guard and held against the wall, his cheek pressed up harshly against the smooth concrete as the guard’s coarse glove starts to wander down his body. 

“They said you were pretty,” he starts, his voice low like he’s talking to himself, like he’s completely forgotten that Snow is still there, still a sentient being who can hear him. “But I never expected this. So smooth, so strong...lean, lithe, pliant. So easy to torment.”

His free hand skates down Snow’s frame as he talks, stopping briefly to give a considering squeeze to the swell of his pectoral or to test the give of his bicep with curious fingers. His hand continues down, fingertips tracing over the ridges of Snow’s abs, through the slight dip above his navel.

“So smooth...you’re going to look so good, when we’re done with you…”

“Stop touching me,” Snow hisses, and earns himself a hard smack of his head against the wall, the dull sound of skull on concrete making his ears ring and his vision blur.

“Hush,” the guard snaps. “We’ve barely begun our journey together, Snow. And by the end of it, you’ll be used to us touching you everywhere--hell, you’ll come to crave it. You won’t be able to remember a time when your body wasn’t ours, shaped and molded to our every whim and desire, and you’ll love it.”

His searching fingers dip a little lower, and finally find their prize--the guard grabs the soft length of Snow’s flaccid cock in a firm fist, and the sound Snow makes is choked, something raw and pulled from deep in his chest. He tries to look down, squirming as best he can with how he’s held and how he hurts, and the guard laughs at his feeble attempts to get away. 

“This, especially,” he says, his voice low and promising. “Your little cock is so cute now, but just you wait...we’ll make this part of you useful, too. We’ll show you just how much fun we can have with a little dick, and show you just what it’s good for, how it should be used…”

The guard trails off with a low chuckle, pinching the head of Snow’s cock between his fingers just to hear him grunt in pain. One of his fingertips finds the soft fold of Snow’s slit, and he runs the pad of his finger over the little hole teasingly, toying with the sensitive, pink skin and delighting in how it makes Snow’s knees shake.

“You’d better get used to it, boy,” he says, before his hand retreats; he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a slim razor, and Snow stares at it, flinching back as the blade is pressed to his skin. With precise, controlled movements, the guard shaves through the pale curls clustered around the base of Snow’s dick, each swipe revealing a new stretch of the tender skin beneath. “As soon as you came in the door, you became ours, in every sense of the word.” He glances away from his handiwork to grin at Snow. “And the sooner you accept that, the easier your time here is gonna be.”

“I am not just some plaything,” Snow growls, having finally found his voice again, now that the room has stopped spinning. “I am l’Cie, I am a fighter. I will not just sit here and have you toy with me--”

“Wrong again,” the guard says, sitting up a bit and drawing back his arm--and the swift, strong punch to his temple has Snow’s head cracking back against the concrete wall, and sends him spiralling into oblivion.

-x-  
When Snow wakes up, he finds himself in yet another new position--hanging from the ceiling by thick cuffs around his wrists, his ankles spread by a heavy metal bar--and as he blinks the room into focus, he finds himself staring at the back of a single Psi-com trooper.

Snow feels a flicker of hope come to life in his chest.

Just one guard--he can handle that, surely. He’s not been weakened so much that one guard can hold him in restraints with no weapons.

But then the guard turns to face him, and Snow’s hope is dashed as quickly as it’d come.

There is a stainless steel table set up behind the guard, and as soon as Snow sees it, any notion of the trooper being unarmed flees from his mind. The table is littered with a multitude of tools--pliers, syringes, electric shockers and metal rods, clamps and speculums and things that Snow can’t even recognize--and each one gets a touch by the trooper, like he’s trying to decide which one to start with, trying to decide how to initiate Snow’s torture.

“They told me you would fight,” the trooper says--conversational, like Snow isn’t hanging from the ceiling, like this whole dynamic is anything less than absolutely fucked. He turns around, and Snow finds his gaze drawn to the fluid-filled syringe held between his fingers. “But I don’t think it has to come to that...does it, pet?”

Snow grits his teeth to silence his reply; because what is he supposed to say? Any answer to the negative would surely inflict pain and punishment, but an agreement would be like taking a knife to his dignity. Silence is the better option, at least in his mind--and the trooper hums in what might be amusement, stepping forward so he can reach out and touch Snow.

“There are so many ways I could break you,” he murmurs, running his fingers along the planes of Snow’s chest, feeling each shift of muscle and bone as he breathes. “But I have my orders...I’m only going to focus on one part of you today, pretty little thing.”

He crouches, then, and grabs Snow’s soft cock in his free hand, giving the vulnerable flesh a squeeze that has Snow grimacing. “This cute little thing right here.”

The trooper’s head tips up, and Snow can hear the smile in his voice as he says, “We’re going to make this useless thing into something that you can be proud of. We’re gonna turn it into another way you can please your masters.” He gives the tip of Snow’s cock a sharp pinch, watches the way the muscles in his thighs jump at the pain. “Isn’t that good? Aren’t you excited?”

“You’re sick,” Snow snarls, his eyes narrowed and muscles tense as he tries to draw himself away from the trooper’s hands; but the bondage holds tight, and all he earns for his struggles is a sharp slap to his thigh. “I’m not--whatever you think I’m going to let you do, I’m not, I won’t let you--”

“Oh, you sweet, stupid thing,” the guard sighs, tutting as he lines the syringe up with the subtle rope of Snow’s femoral artery, pulsing with the race of his heart underneath pale skin. “What makes you think you have a choice?”

The needle slides in, and the shock of it is enough to steal Snow’s breath away, to rob him of any response he might manage. No sooner has the guard depressed the plunger than Snow can feel the drug start to coarse through his body, running hot like liquid fire through his veins and scorching him from the inside out, making every muscle relax and rendering his limbs loose. He sags a little more in the cuffs, the strength and tension bleeding from his body as his vision dims a little.

“...what,” he chokes, his voice breathy and weak; it’s hard to get the words out, through all the fog in his head. “What did you...what…”

“Hush, little snowball.” The trooper stands so he can return the syringe to the table, and returns with one of the thin metal rods in his grasp instead. When he taps it to the head of Snow’s cock, Snow is taken aback by the sudden rush of overwhelming, almost painful pleasure that shoots through him. “That’s just a little something to help you relax, that’s all. After all…” He trails off with a chuckle. “You’re going to need it, for what I have in mind.”

What he has in mind turns out to be a torture that Snow wasn’t even aware he should have been preparing for.

First the guard teases his fingertip around the head of Snow’s cock, digging his nail into the soft hole of Snow’s slit; and once he’s got the skin good and worked up, once Snow’s cock is struggling to chub up, twitching in his grasp, he lines up the metal rod. It slides in slowly, barely thick enough to make the urethra stretch, but Snow howls at the feeling all the same--it feels so violating to be penetrated there, so foreign and wrong, but the drug that clouds his mind has him relishing the pleasure that comes with it, the sparks that are set off deep in his core from the rod’s cold, prying touches. 

“Just like that,” the guard coos, once the rod has been seated all the way to its flared base inside Snow’s cock--rendering the flesh falsely stiff, red and irritated around the tip. He taps the base of the rod with his fingertip, and delights in watching how Snow jumps at each touch, quaking in his restraints. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? Now we need just a little more…”

Snow listens, and pants, and closes his eyes; he can’t handle more. If this is how he feels with just the first contact, the initial touch making him curl his toes and arch his back, he can’t imagine what having more will do to him--can’t imagine just what the guard is after. 

But his reservations do not matter to the trooper, who simple grabs for another rod off the table. Hanging there with his head foggy and his body running hot, betraying him in the most base of ways, Snow isn’t sure his reservations even matter to himself.

The guard grabs for Snow’s cock again, fingertips massaging at the skin to feel the metal sound threaded through the meat, like he’s appraising something from a butcher. He hums in approval and instead grabs for the rod buried in Snow’s cock, and pulls it out slowly--the sensation has Snow tossing his head back, has him keening through gritted teeth, overwhelmed by the alien sense of pleasure that makes him feel like he’s burning. 

“I know, pet,” the trooper coos, working the rod in slow, patient movements, fucking Snow’s cock with it--each pass has the sound drawing back a little more slick, a little more shiny with pre-cum, and if Snow wasn’t so far out of his mind he’d be even more humiliated by the way his body so lovingly reacts to the violation. “It’s so much…”

But then he pulls the sound nearly halfway out and stops, angling it to the side and making Snow’s urethra stretch; it leaves a tiny gap at the head of his cock, a little space in the soft meat of his slit, and it’s there that the guard presses the next sound, his fingers careful and sure.

The angled tip of the rod slips in, just barely--and when the guard pushes forward, making Snow’s cock take the intrusion, Snow can’t help his howl. It hurts in the worst kind of way, scorching him somewhere so vulnerable and delicate, making the untouched muscle and flesh stretch out to accommodate the trooper’s wishes; and yet on the heels of the pain is a pleasure that he’s never known the likes of before, something coming from deep in his body and everywhere all at once, warring with the hurt and making Snow’s head spin at the clashing sensations. He half-heartedly tries to draw his legs up, tries to shield himself from any more of the abuse, despite how good it feels--and he’s met with chain and weight, forced to hold still, suspended utterly helpless and at the mercy of the guard’s hands.

The guard’s hands, which are currently fucking Snow’s cock in earnest, alternating thrusting each sound back and forth in the tight channel of his urethra. 

Snow’s body trembles where he hangs, each nerve overwhelmed and overcome with the sensation of having his cock fucked by the two sounds. He tosses his head and can’t stop his cries--of pain, humiliation, pleasure--as his toes curl, his hips rising up to meet each thrust as the trooper’s careful touches work them in.

“Now you’re getting it,” he murmurs, before he lines both sounds up and pushes them both forward, as one, as deep in Snow’s cock as they will go.

Later, Snow will think back on this time and be mortified; later, he will hate himself for the orgasm that rocks him, for the white-hot pleasure that pulses from him in thick spurts. But for now, all he can do is lie slack in the chains and scream his release, and let the comforting embrace of all white surround him as he peacefully passes out.

-x-

The first two sounds--the first contact--are like breaking a dam. After those initial moments, Snow knows no peace.

His life is spent in this one room, bound hand and foot, with nothing but the table full of tools and the rotating cycle of troopers to keep him company. He comes to know them by the range of gentleness in their actions, by the eagerness in their grabbing hands, by the mocking lilt of their voices; as far as he can tell there are six involved in his training, and never the same one two days in a row. He comes to find that he has preferences for them, likes some better than others--and even that, that some of his tormentors have favour with him, is enough to make him sick with himself when the drugs wear off.

Like now.

Snow knows that another day has come and gone because he finds himself waking up in a dark room, as of yet unlit, to the sound of the door opening and boots walking in on the tile. He lifts his head to see a trooper walking in with a covered plate in his hands, and his stomach growls loudly; he’s forgotten the last time he was fed, forgotten what it even was that he was given to eat.

“I brought your breakfast,” the guard says, setting the plate down on the stainless steel table and glancing up at Snow. “The boss said it was time for you eat, and I dunno when he’s gonna be this gracious again. I’d make sure to eat all of it, if I was you.”

He pulls the cover off, and Snow finds himself staring down at a plate of what looks to be small granola bars. The guard grabs one in his fingertips and holds it up to Snow’s mouth expectantly with a command of, “Eat.”

And Snow has no idea what’s in it--has no clue if there’s any allergens, if it’s been poisoned--and yet he chomps down on the bar like it’s the best thing he’s ever been offered; now that he’s been made aware of his hunger again, he’s ravenous, can feel how his stomach is trying to devour itself in a desperate quest for nutrients. He chews and the burst of salt across his tongue is welcome, replacing what he’s lost over the past few days in sweat and exertion; but as grateful as he is for the nutrition, he doesn’t want to think about just what is giving the bar that flavour. 

It’s probably for the best that he doesn’t know.

“Good, isn’t it?” the guard asks, feeding Snow the rest of the bar from his hand like an invalid--even when it’s gone, he presses his gloved fingers to Snow’s lips, and Snow suckles at them like a newborn, trying to get all of the flavour off.

He tells himself it’s just the starvation that is making him behave in such an undignified manner. 

He tells himself he’s not broken--cracked, maybe. Bent.

But not broken.

The guard lets him have one more bar, and when Snow has licked away all traces of salt from his gloves, he turns around to cover the plate again. “You can have more once you’ve earned them,” he says, in response to Snow’s anguished whine. 

The guard grabs a new pack of rods off the table--thicker ones, nearly the size of Snow’s fingers--and advances on Snow like a predator, an eager note in his voice as he says, “You’re going to pass one of the benchmarks, today. Aren’t you excited?”

Snow shakes his head, but he knows it doesn’t matter. 

Anymore, hardly anything does.

The trooper drops to a crouch in front of him, his fingers tracing lightly over Snow’s soft cock; and even after just a week of training, the effect on his body is clear. His slit already gapes a little, the rim of it turned a painful red with irritation that bleeds all the way down the head of Snow’s cock, turning soft, vulnerable skin ruddy and inflamed. The guard’s fingertip nudges at Snow’s slit and he can’t help his short bark of pain, the way the muscles in his legs jerk in response to the hurt that races white-hot all the way up his spine.

“Gotta be careful,” the guard says, amusement in his voice. “I think someone is getting sensitive.”

Sensitive is an understatement, but that doesn’t stop the guard from pressing one of the thicker, pre-lubed rods up against the stretched-out gape of Snow’s slit. With a hum he slides it in, deaf to the way Snow cries out above him, focused only on the movement of the rod inside the thin skin and how Snow’s cock has to bulge and stretch to make it fit.

“Not bad,” he says, giving the rod a few smooth thrusts to work out the tissue of Snow’s abused urethra, forcing it to stretch even further. “But I bet you can take more…”

With one last parting thrust, he pulls the sound free, and replaces it with another; this one is even thicker, as wide as the guard’s index finger with a curious knob at the end, and staring down at it Snow has no idea how it will ever fit inside him.

The guard seems to have no such qualms.

Again the sound is lined up, and again it’s pushed in--Snow can’t even be ashamed of his cry as his cock is speared open on the thick metal, filled up inch by unrelenting inch until the base is kissing up against the head of his cock and his entire urethra is full. It’s such an uncomfortable feeling that it has Snow’s stomach turning, his body trying to physically reject the sensation; and yet, even as he focuses on it, he can feel the discomfort starting to fade, replaced instead by a pleasant, buzzing sort of warmth that starts in his belly and bleeds out.

By now, Snow can recognize the feeling of the drug slowly taking hold of his body--and right now, more than ever before, he welcomes it. It dulls the pain in his cock and takes him away from his prison, if only in his head; as the drug races through his veins he can feel his body relaxing, accepting the sound with relative ease as it starts to work in and out of him. The guard twists the knob and Snow can only gurgle at the feeling of the sound flaring out, widening and spreading his urethra open even further with every twist. It still hurts, but in a way that feels almost distant; numbed by the drug or Snow’s desensitization or both.

Once he’s pleased with how wide it is, the guard gives the sound a few firm taps just to ensure that it’s nestled snugly in Snow’s cock, and then he stands up, appraising his work with a speculative eye. Once he seems to deem everything up to his standards, he goes to uncover the plate of granola bars again, and comes back to hold another one up to Snow’s lips. “You’ve earned this, doll.”

Snow eats from the trooper’s fingers like a docile pet--like some whipped dog, too grateful for the food to even care about how he gets it. When the plate is empty the guard turns away, leaving the sound in Snow’s cock as he starts to walk out.

“You be good while I’m gone,” he says; Snow can barely hear him, hanging slack in his chains with his eyes half-lidded, too far out of his mind to do much more than stare at the colors bleeding in and out of the opposite wall. The trooper chuckles and walks out, leaving his captive alone with nothing but the drug filling his head and the flared-open sound keeping him stretched, and goes to report his progress.

-x-

 

The next time the guard returns--nearly a week later, when he’s the one scheduled to tend to the captive again--he opens the door to find himself staring at something he didn’t think he’d see for at least another month: Snow, stretched out on a table with his wrists tied above his head, a blindfold over his eyes and another guard straddling his waist. Snow’s thighs are spread and trembling, and the trooper can see why clearly: his cock is laid out between his legs and moving, getting fucked by the guard above him. 

“S-stop, stop...” Snow is wheezing, gasping, begging, and all of it falls on deaf ears. “Please, I-I--I can’t, oh, god, my--you’re fucking my--!”

One of the guards standing nearby stops jerking his stiff dick, and instead goes to the other table to draw up a syringe full of drug. He slides it into Snow’s arm with an impatient noise, eager to get back to jerking off. 

After all, all the stretching in the world doesn’t matter when it comes to getting his cock fucked, and it has to hurt; but none of the guards mind.

That’s why the blindfold is there--to cover Snow’s blotchy eyes and reddened nose, to ensure that the only evidence they can see of their captive crying is the thin tear tracks that race down his cheeks. Those they don’t particularly care about, especially not when all it takes is one good thrust into the stretched, ruined hole of his cock to have Snow throwing his head back with a howl and hiding his face from view anyway. As the drug starts to kick in Snow’s body starts to relax, pain releasing its tense grasp on his muscles; and the encouraged trooper atop him only ruts faster, fucking into the gaping slit of Snow’s cock with smooth, fluid movement of his hips and getting off to the weak noises of pain coming from the prisoner beneath him.

But the guard that just came in has a new idea--a better idea. 

He climbs up onto the table too, straddling Snow’s waist but facing the opposite way. He grabs Snow’s cock and lifts it straight up, making the hole stretch lewdly around the dick still stuffed in it, and then he lines the head of his own cock up at the red, ruined slit. 

“You’re a madman,” the other trooper says, awe in his voice.

And together, they sink in.

The feeling is exquisite--like nothing the guard has ever felt before. The inside of Snow’s cock is moist and warm, the soft walls almost painfully tight around the two lengths currently rocking into it, fucking it in slow, leisurely thrusts. The friction of his own cock rubbing against the other trooper’s as they piston into the tight space is heavenly, a dryer contrast to the slick sensation of the inside of Snow’s dick.

Snow is a wreck beneath them--howling at the feeling of having his cock fucked by two dicks at once, his toes curled and hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, tears soaking the fabric of the blindfold--and each brutal stretch to his cock, each spreading thrust, has him jerking anew, his hips arching and bucking in a confused rhythm, unsure whether to get closer or move away. Drool starts to slide down his chin from his slack mouth, and one of the guards standing nearby leaps upon that, coming forward to lift his arm and rub the sweaty pit of his suit against Snow’s lax lips.

Were he there, Snow would have been mortified at the degrading action; but as it is, his drug-addled mind can’t really focus on the relatively minor transgression. His lips work weakly against the fabric, tasting the salt there with the tip of his tongue, sucking at it on reflex. The guard’s sweat glistens against Snow’s lips when he finally pulls away, but even then it’s only so he can aim his cock at Snow’s face and cum in thick, eager pulses across the blindfold and in the dirty locks of Snow’s long hair. 

Snow doesn’t know how long the fucking goes on--but he can feel it when the guards cum, can feel the burst of their release spreading inside him, bubbling out of Snow’s slit when they pull their pulsing cocks away. It feels good in the worst kind of way, a soothing sort of warmth oozing around his irritated, gaping slit; and it feels even better when there’s a prick at his arm, and another dose of fiery drug is pushed into his veins. 

The guards cycle through, celebrating their hard work--Snow loses track of how many fuck him. At one point in time he can feel three of them brutalizing him, stiff cocks pistoning into his ass, his urethra, and his mouth all at once; when they finally step away, Snow is a trembling wreck on the table, covered in cum and shuddering as he cries.

“Job well done,” one of the troopers says, panting softly as he gives Snow’s cheek a pat. “You’re our good pet now, snowball.” He pauses, then grabs a fistful of Snow’s dirty hair. “Aren’t you, doll?”

“Y-yes...yes,” Snow hiccups, nodding blindly, turning his head and licking the cum off his face--just like the guards want him to. Just like a good sextoy would. 

“All yours,” he whispers, his voice raspy; and even with the drug starting to wear off, it doesn’t matter. Snow is gone.

“All yours.”


End file.
